All the Tomorrows
by Aisalynn
Summary: Christine had a choice. She could refuse him, and everyone within the opera house would die. She could accept him, and she would live underground, as his wife. She chose. Now, Erik writes about the time they shared. Leroux based.
1. Goodbye

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, book or musical. Nor do I own Phantom, by Susan Kay. I do not, even, own a personal life size Erik, even though I asked my cousin to get me one for my birthday. She said it was impossible. pout**

**A/N: This is not a one shot. Yay! And I DO plan to finish this one. It won't be very long, though. Just a few chapters. Still, this has been going on in my head since I finished reading the book by Gaston Leroux, and I was finally forced to write it when I started reading Phantom by Susan Kay. (There both such wonderful books! They're inspiring! Such wonderful angst!) **

**This story is completely Leroux based. Which means Erik wears a full mask, and I will always refer to Nadir and "daroga" Just like in the novel. There will be, however, some things from Phantom, as that goes along with what Leroux originally wrote. I was inspired to write this when I read the scene where Erik comes to the Persian to explain how he let Christine go. In fact, two paragraph from this story was taken from that very scene, though I had wrote it out in my own words, and changed the ending to suit my purpose. Oh, and I did not write the song that Christine sings. I sang it once at a recital, and I just love it, though I can't remember who wrote it. And now! On to the story!**

_**All the Tomorrows**_

_**Chapter 1: Goodbye.**_

I have never been one to indulge in journals and memoirs. Disregarding the fact that I find writing itself a tedious and menial task, I believe, whole-heartedly, that a life such as mine should not be put down in paper to be remembered. A life such as I have lived should be forgotten completely, fading from thoughts and therefore, existence. So why do I now find myself sitting at my desk, not composing or sketching out architectural plans, but recording a part of a life of one so dark, and I daresay, evil as I? Perhaps it is to calm your fierce curiosity, daroga. For I am sure you are desperate to know what has happened in the months since you were saved from death by the pleading of Christine Daae. Indeed, you have tried many times to enter my house by the lake again. But I think you'll find that since your last success, it is now impossible.

But perhaps the real reason is that I cannot bear for those few precious months where I was content and even _happy_ to fade out of existence. So you will have to forgive me for this selfish act of plaguing the world with an account of something from my life. Even if, daroga, you will probably be the only one to ever read this.

For the sake of completion, and because you must want to know everything, I shall return to the night Christine Daae consented to be my wife. And my wife she was. But I get ahead of myself. You and the Viscount had been saved from a watery grave completely by Christine. When I had ignored your cries in the torture chamber, she came to me, tearful and panicky, and pleaded for your life and the life of that damn boy. When I turned a deaf ear to these also, she promised me something I could not refuse. She promised that if I saved your lives, she would not only be my wife but my _living_ wife! I had reconciled that she was to be my wife only in death, for she would surely kill herself after entering marriage with a monster such as I. And I was content to follow her into death. But now! Now the possibility of her being my actual, _living_ wife! Oh, how could I refuse?

You and Viscount were pulled from the flooded room of mirrors (Why had you chosen to lead him into my house? For surely you knew this would mean your death. I cannot understand you sometimes, daroga.). The Viscount woke before you did. Indeed, you took so long in waking that we thought you would die. But you know what took place from there: my fiancé (then I had called her my _wife_, mostly to get the point across, and partly because I could scarcely believe it myself and it was as if saying it would make it somehow all the more real) treated you in silence, and I took you above ground. What you do not know is what I did with the boy. I did not kill him, as you no doubt suspect. But I did not release him either. For quite some time he was my hostage in one of the cellars of the Opera House. Quite without Christine's knowledge, I must confess.

I cannot fully describe to you the scene which took place after I had set you free. There are no words which could tell you of the miraculous, wonderful things that happened. When I returned from my task she was there, waiting for me. Waiting for _me!_ And when I hesitantly moved toward her, _she did not back away!_ Like a real, living bride she stood there, unflinching when I placed my hands, my cold, death-like hands, on her shoulders. Like a real, living bride, she put her forehead forward a little (a little! Just a little!) and allowed me to kiss her forehead. She did not shudder! She did not flinch away or cry out, and _she did not die! _She allowed me to kiss her, when no other woman has. When my own mother, after I had asked, in my innocence, for a kiss cried out in horror, "_You must not ask that! You must never ask that again…**never!**"_

Sobbing, I sank to the floor at her feet. The happiness of this simple act was so fierce that it was painful. I could not bear it. Great, moaning sobs and muttered words of adoration erupted from my lips as I kneeled before her, kissing the hem of her dress, her shoes, her ankles… Tears fell from my mask and I was horrified to see that my tears, _my_ tears dared to stain the garment which she wore. But I could not stop my sobs, and soon my tears were not the only ones to fall. I looked up in disbelief when I heard an answering sob to my own to see that she cried with me! Her tears rained on my face and I ripped off my mask so as to not lose a single one. Her tears mingled with mine, trailed silkily down my face and into the crack of my lips. And she did not move away from the horror of my face. Instead she cried all the more, bent down and exclaimed, "Poor, unhappy Erik!" And then she _took my hand!_ I could not bear it. If I did not get away I would die. I would have suffocated in the tears and sobs and utter _emotion_ that welled up in me. I pulled a gold band from my pocket, the ring I had given her, and she had lost, and I had found again, and slipped it on her finger. Placing a trembling kiss on her hand, and giving a great sob when she didn't pull away, I dragged myself to my room and collapsed on the floor.

I stayed that way for hours, completely oblivious to the passage of time, to anything around me. I only know that when I finally emerged from my room it must have been the next day, for there was Christine, freshly dressed and reading a book, as she had done in her previous visits, in a corner chair. It was so much, in fact, like her previous visits, that for a moment I wasn't sure if the night before had happened, if we had not, actually, been pushed back into time and she would soon be leaving me to go above ground to flirt and court that idiot boy the Viscount. Then she looked up from her book and I knew it all had been real. A mixture of violent emotions took hold of me: sadness and guilt over her pale, drawn features and puffy eyes; joy, love and triumph as I realized that I had won. Christine was _mine._

"Come," I said, gesturing to the piano. I sat down on the bench and she walked faithfully to my side. For both of us, music was a release. It was a way to unleash the emotions with in us, to give way to pain and sorrow, to finally breathe freely. I understood this. And though I still felt my triumph keenly, I was compassionate to her pain. I played a song that we had practiced before, a song that required emotion, passion. A song of farewell. A song simply titled "Goodbye," which I will write some of it out for you, so you can see why I chose it, and why it fit her so.

_Falling leaf, and fading tree_

_Lines of white on a sullen sea!_

_Shadows falling on you and me_

_Shadows falling on you and me!_

_The swallows are making them ready to fly_

_Wheeling out on a windy sky._

_Goodbye, Summer! Goodbye, goodbye._

_Goodbye Summer! _

_Goodbye… goodbye. _

Her voice rose up like a living thing, filled with so much passion and sorrow that I wept. Even as I played I wept. It wrapped itself around me, hypnotizing and entrancing me just as my voice had done to others. I too, felt despair and sorrow as she softly sang the lines. _All the tomorrows, shall be as today…_ _The cord is frayed, the cruse is dry… The link must break and the lamp must die… _I have always been obsessed with creating things, daroga. As you well know. But I cannot claim to have created the voice which had filled that tiny room. Oh yes, I shaped it and formed it. But there was no way, as her voice rose to its emotional peak, the end of the song, that I could have created such raw, _agonizing_ beauty.

_Goodbye to Hope. Goodbye, goodbye._

_Goodbye to Hope! _

_Goodbye… goodbye._

_What are we waiting for? Oh! My heart!_

_Kiss me straight on the brow_

_And part again. Again! My heart! My heart!_

_What are we waiting for, you and I?_

_A pleading look? A stifled cry!_

_Goodbye! To summer! _

_Goodbye! Forever! Goodbye…_

_Goodbye… goodbye._

When the last chord faded she collapsed in a trembling heap, completely drained. Silently, I closed the piano and went to her side. She had paled terribly, and had raised one hand to her mouth as she released great, gasping sobs. I gently wiped the tears from her face, reveling in that this small gesture was allowed, and picked her up, cradling her against my chest. She did not stop her crying. I carried her to her room, placed her lovingly on the bed, took off her shoes and tucked the blanket around her. Murmuring words of comfort and love I brushed back her curls from her face.

Her sobs continued as I walked out of the room. I hated to see her like this. I hated that my Christine, my angel, suffered. But I knew that the song had been necessary. That perhaps now, with the emotional release of closure and of saying goodbye, we might, both of us, be able to move on.


	2. Death's Embrace

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Phantom of Opera, or Phantom. In fact, I don't even own a copy of the book now, considering my cousin's dog _ate my copy of it!_ That is so the last time I ever lend her anything ever again…**

**A/N: So! Here's the next chapter! Up pretty fast for me, but like I said, I've been inspired. It also helps that I've practically got the whole thing planned out. I've been trying to keep them in character, but its been kind of hard. Especially since I don't even have the book to look back through now. Stupid dog…stupid cousin… **

**And for my reviewers…**

**Mortal Phantom—Thanks. I've been trying keep them in character. I'm glad it moved you.**

**Soofija—Wow. Brilliant? Tears? Really? Whoa… Thank you so much. As to the spelling, "Viscount" and "Vicomte" are the same thing. Vicomte is just the French version. But I think, that in the book its "Viscount." So that's why I spelled it that way. I think anyway, as I said, I don't exactly have the book to look at anymore… sigh **

**PhantomObsessor—Thank you! I know when I read the "Poor, unhappy Erik!" part in the book I was bawling. I'm glad I kept that emotion in there.**

**the phantom's cry—Lerouxesque? Wow. Thanks. I know I kind of tried to keep to his style, but I didn't think I managed it. And I'm glad you think Erik is in character. It was rather hard to do from his point of view. I couldn't just cheat and list adjectives and go on about his wonderful voice. grin**

**Mimi90316—Yeah, I know. I kept having to stop myself from putting in things from the musical. And in this one a put a lot of stuff from Susan Kay. My excuse is that it goes along with the novel. Thanks for the review.**

**Paige Turner3—Wow. Thanks. I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much. **

**And now! The second chapter!**

_**All the Tomorrows**_

_**Chapter 2: Death's Embrace**_

Our engagement lasted for a week. I say engagement, daroga, for that is what it was. I did not intend to immediately force upon her the magnitude and duties of marriage, without being properly married. No, I wanted a real marriage, not a farce made up for my vanity or merely to lure the young Mlle. Daae into my bedroom. Though it was a custom in your country, I do not use women for pleasure and sexual release. You found that out when I refused the young concubine your king had offered me, much to the sha's and khanum's annoyance, if you remember. No, I wanted, as I always have, to simply love and to be loved. To have a wife that I could take walks with in the park, to picnic with and go to church with. Not that I am devout Catholic, far from it, in fact. But I intended to have a priest marry us all the same.

During the week of our engagement, our lives went on much as they had in the two weeks Christine had stayed with me. We sang together, duets from operas past performed, or some of the lighter, less painful compositions of my own. I could not bear to leave her side for a moment. I was, perhaps, just as she described me: a dog trailing loyally behind its master. Though I did not take off the mask and try to catch her eye, no matter how much she questioned and subtly urged me to do so. I remembered, you see, of what she had told the de Chagny boy on the roof of the opera house. How she had confessed to him, believing me to be underground working on my _Don Juan Triumphant_, the horror of my face and what she did to convince me that it did not bother her. For the sake of her_ freedom_. No, there was to be no freedom now, and I would not horrify her with my face anymore than I had to. I know well what horrors the mind can create just from memories themselves. No need to inspire any more gruesome imaginings. I kept the mask on.

In the evenings she usually read, and I would stay with her, sometimes I would read also, other times I would play the violin or the piano, but mostly I just watched her. She was still pale, and sometimes the book in her hands would tremble, or a solitary tear would escape to be roughly wiped away. But there were times when she would look up, see me there, and smile. It was a small smile, usually strained. But she would smile, and not grimace and look away when my twisted lips, which could be seen below my mask, smiled in return.

When she grew weary of reading I would entertain her with stories of my travels. She was a great lover of stories and myths, and her eyes would grow wide as I told her of the gypsies and their superstitions. They would glaze over with wonder when I described to her the buildings and architecture I visited, and she would gasp in delight when I showed her my sketches of them. Those little gasps and expressions were more of a drug to me than morphine or opium, and I did everything in my power to keep her making them. I found myself once again the magician, the performer. And I had never been happier to be so.

The few times I did leave her it was usually to attend to my captive in the cellar. By attend I mean giving him food and water, making sure he was at least healthy if he couldn't be comfortable, tied and locked away as he was. I had no intention of killing him. Indeed, I have not had indulged in any sort of lust for murder since I made that oath to you many years before. But you do not believe that do you? You think of Joseph Buquet, and even the Count Philippe, who was found dead at the edge of my lake. The Count's was a tragic death, but completely accidental. He had met with the Siren and slipped into the water. He was dead before I had arrived. As for Buquet, he had somehow found his way into my torture chamber, just as you did. Only the electrical supply had not been cut off as it had been for you.

I must tell you, when I had come home one evening to find the alarm going off and someone in the torture chamber I had believed it to be you, daroga. In blind panic I turned it off and ran into the room. Ah, such grief, such fear, such utter _horror_ did I feel when I saw what I thought to be your body swinging from the iron tree! I blamed myself, for I knew how curious and how meddlesome you were. And for minutes I just stood there cursing myself before I could gain the courage to approach and cut down the body. And it was a few more minutes before I could tell that it was not your body but Joseph Buquet's! You can see why that after this, his death seemed rather inconsequential. But to return to Christine, and our marriage.

The few other times I had left her were to arrange the details for our wedding. We needed a priest, and the paperwork, and a dress, for Christine would surely wear a dress. It was always one of my fantasies to see her done up in white, with a veil and flowers. And I intended for it to happen. For all this I went to Jules Bernard. You do not know of him, but he is an employee of mine. He is my contact to the world outside the opera, and anything I needed he obtained for me.

The details were soon worked out, and on the sixth night of our engagement I went before Christine to show her the dress. I had designed it myself. It was an off the shoulder cut, with sparkling beads sewn into gossamer lace and a full skirt. It was elegant and beautiful in its simplicity, exactly as I'd imagined. I was pleased with it, especially since I had only given the seamstress five days in which to complete it. I am sure that Jules was met with quite a lot of disbelief and anger when he relayed these instructions, but when one pays as much as I did, you can be forgiven your little eccentricities.

Her eyes were wide with both fear and wonder as she ran her hands over the material. "It's beautiful," she murmured. It was. And it would look even more beautiful when she wore the next day at our wedding. I told her so. "Tomorrow?" She looked up and the fear and apprehension in her eyes became more pronounced. Her hand on the dress trembled slightly.

"Tomorrow," I said. "In the evening." She nodded and lowered her eyes once more, silently caressing the dress. I went on my knees and placed my gloved hands on hers. I had taken to wearing gloves, even inside, for my hands are cold and smell of death, just as she told de Chagny. "Christine, it will not be so bad. You'll see. You shall not want for anything." What was I saying? I knew very well that it was indeed as bad as she thought. To be married to a monster? A demon? My mind went to the girl the shah had offered, who would have willingly chosen death than to lie with me. But Christine merely smiled sadly and whispered, "I know, Erik." My heart swelled with love for her with these words, with this acceptance. But the sadness did not fade from her eyes.

There were only four people at our wedding: Christine and myself, the priest, and Jules, who was our witness. The priest believed us to be an eloping couple, and Christine played her part well, locking her eyes on mine with a passionate gaze and then lowering them only to look at me through her lashes with a secret, shy smile. And I, I had no reason to act. She was breathtaking and I was so in love. My passion and wonder as I stood with her there were completely and absolutely real.

When we had said our vows and it was time for the kiss that would forge our union, I lifted the veil from her face and whispered the same words I had spoken to the girl in Persia. But they held a different meaning now. "I have seen what lies behind your veil, my dear. Come forward and remove my mask." Slowly, she did so. And ignoring the gasps and cries of horror coming from the two other people in the room, I kissed her. I kissed her with all the passion, fury and love I had in me. And then I pulled her to me, burying my face in her curls. She had told the Viscount, _"If I did not love you, I would not give you my lips." _She did not love me, but I had taken them. Knowing this, I wept into her hair. And when I held her that night—in the Louis-Philippe room, for the thought of her in the coffin in my room was abominable—I still wept. Her eyes were closed and she clung to me tightly, and for a moment I believed she thought of de Chagny. Until she answered my sobbing cries of "Christine," with a soft, barely heard whisper of "Erik." But when she trembled, I knew it was because of no passion for me, but because she knew, just as I did, that she was embracing Death.


	3. To Understand

**Disclaimer: As I have said, I do not own Phantom of the Opera, or Phantom. That's all I'm gonna say, cause I'm sick of disclaimers. **

**A/N: I'm not happy with this chapter. It took me longer than I thought it would, and I suppose I could claim lack of inspiration, or rather, lack of _writing_ inspiration. I did, however, conquer my fear of liquid medians (go me!) and painted lots of Phantom of the Opera stuff. Now, if I could just gather my courage and take on ink... Anyway, I'm rather worried about how well this chapter is. Tell me what you think?**

**_the phantoms cry: _(Bows) thank you!**

**_Soofija:_ I completely agree. Though I do love the movie, and it was what first got me interested in PotO, the book is SO much better. The movie completely fails to capture the sorrow, grief, and yes, HORROR that is in Erik's story. He _was_ a monster. He _was_ a murderer. He was, in all likelihood, more than slightly mad. And yet he did love Christine, and he did let her go in the end. I just don't think it was portrayed well in the movie. Anyway, thanks for the review! **

**_Mousey Nezu: _Thanks. I've been trying to keep him in character, and have been trying to not lean so heavily on Kay's Phantom, for though I think it is a wonderful book, its not the original, and I should not consider it an authority. However, it does give some nice background info to make thing more interesting. **

**_Leli1013_****And here it is! I hope you enjoy it, short though it is. **

**_Froek:_** **Wow. Your review absolutely blew me away. You have no idea how excited I was when I read it. I had this big, humongous grin on my face and I was practically jumping up and down. I think was actually... You find out what happens to Raoul in this chapter, and as to Christine loving Erik for himself? You'll just have to decide yourself. And thank you for that amazing review. **

**_Twinkle22: _I'm trying to keep it dark. I keep getting tempted to put in a lot of fluff. I keep having to tell myself: "No! Bad Sarah! No fluff! _Angst, _not fluff, _angst." _(grins) Thanks for the review!**

**_Mianne: _Yeah, I have been wondering what would happen if he hadn't let her go, which led to me writing this. In fact, the minute I finished reading the book I had this fic floating around in my head—you know random phrases and scenes—but I didn't actually start to write till about a week or so after. **

**_phicaddictdpiratephantomprsnya_****Wow! What a name! And I know how you feel. Its very tempting to just write myself in there and show him that he is _definitely_ loved. (grins)**

**_PhantomObsessor: _Oh no! Don't die! (runs around looking for electric shock paddles) I can't find any! (panics) Wait! I know CPR! (proudly shows card that says she is certified in CPR) Or how about this! Will a bag of marshmallows and chapter three revive you? Hmmm? **

_**Chapter Three**_

_**To Understand**_

In the early hours of the morning, before the first light of dawn, I left her. I slithered silently from the sheets of the bed and looked down upon her sleeping form. Her blonde curls were tangled and spread across the pillows, the sheet rose in time with her chest as she breathed deep, even, peaceful breaths. She looked more at peace now, than I had seen her in a long time, and it was hard leave her. It was painful. At that moment, torn between walking out of the room and out of the house and lying back down to pull her in my arms, anguish ripped through me. Anguish I had not felt since the night I over heard her and the boy on the roof. But I had something to do, and so I left. Once more the Viscount de Chagny came between me and my bride.

The cellar was cold and dark and damp, as cellars are, and he was asleep, curled in a pitiful dirty ball in a corner of the room. I sneered. How I hated him. This man, this _boy_ who had tried to steal from me. Who had tried to take and possess what was rightfully mine. I had watched as he tried to woo her, with gifts and flowers, pleas of an old friendship and with a pretty face a title to back them. And what was worse, was that I understood him. I understood how much power Christine unknowingly had, how she could render a man desperate, pleading and angry. How she could create such feelings of joy and wonder and absolute adoration in man. Yes, I understood this. And had circumstances been different, I would have done exactly as he did, with his innocent flowers and gifts. But they weren't different, and I had to resort to darker, more deceitful ways of winning her. But win her I did, and it was this reason, that I now went down to him.

Roughly, I woke him. He peered at me, silent in his hatred. Curses had stopped falling from his lips, but the glare did not fade from his eyes. It had only been a week, after all. But I knew that if he were to be locked up here longer, if the days were to slip from him in slow, dark despair, that there would be nothing, not even hatred for me left in those eyes. But there was no point in that. I swiftly cut his bonds and motioned for him to follow me. He did not move until I was nearly out the door. Then, while my back was turned he lunged at me. He had been bound and locked up for a week; he had no weapon, and no strength. I know not what he thought he could do to me, but I knew even before I untied him that he would try this. Before he could even reach me the lasso was around his neck.

He had obviously forgotten the advice you, no doubt, gave him about keeping his hand up. Perhaps he never understood it anyway. But as he clawed at his throat in terror, I could see the realization suddenly appear in his eyes. I tightened the rope and leered down at him. "You're hand at the level of your eyes, Viscount." His eyes bulged and during his gasps and struggled breaths he choked out single word: "Christine…" I immediately released my hold on him and he fell to the ground, gasping. "Christine is no longer any concern of yours," I told him, and stared coldly as panic welled up in his eyes. "We were married yesterday evening."

Understanding is a terrible thing indeed. Just as compassion, and pity are. They are not pretty emotions. They are not kind. They do not care who you are what you have done. Simply because you are a subject to pity does not mean you cannot feel it as well. And unlike the passionate emotions of hate, love and joy, they do not fill you up; they do not well inside of you until you must release the emotion in some way for fear of being consumed by it. They sit heavily upon you, weighing you down until you are weary and hopeless. With understanding comes pity. And as I said before, I understood Raoul de Chagny. When my words were received by an all too human cry of rage and grief, when his features twisted in pain and tears streamed down his face, when his hands clawed at his hair, as if the pain of ripping it out would somehow lesson the pain of the realization that his love, his Christine, was lost to him, I understood him, and I pitied him. I pitied him and I hated him, for I knew, that though Christine was now my wife, it was he who had her love.

He followed me slowly and silently after that, and blinked with dull, dead eyes at the early morning sunlight when we left through the door to the lake. For a moment he just stood there, motionless in the doorway, staring at everything as if it was a world from a memory, as if he had never thought to see it again, and now that he had, he did not care. And I suppose, daroga, that all this might have been true. Finally though, he stumbled away from the door, away from the opera house and the horror within it. And the early risers on the streets of Paris stared as this dirty, desperate man ran blindly away, tears streaming down his face. I closed the door and returned to the boat. And when I entered my house again, Christine was there, still asleep.

I do not wish to be redundant, but I must stress, daroga, that during these few months spent with Christine, I was _happy._ I have been content before; when I am absorbed in my compositions and architecture, or those few precious years when I first built my house here, when I realized that in doing so, I would not have to deal with the cruel and generally horrible world above me. But happiness, happiness was foreign to me. Perhaps the closest time to ever being happy was when I was apprenticed to a master mason in Rome. But even that was just brief splashes of joy in a strange line of contentment that was soon tainted by happenings too horrible to describe. But when Christine was with me, I truly believed I had taken all the happiness the world could provide for someone such as I.

In truth, my life did not change much after I had married—what a joy it is to be able to say that!—Christine. I did not move from my house by the lake, I did not stop my commands to the managers of twenty thousand francs, I did not stop composing. But what things _did_ change with her presence, no matter how big or small, were significant. Our days were dedicated to music, and we were often sitting at the piano, or sifting through scores of music. She loved to hear the violin, and I played it for her often. And afterwards, she, not I, would become the story teller, as she reminisced about the time she lived with her father, and she retold the stories her father had shared with her. And I would become the enraptured audience, staring, entranced, at her as her eyes would glow with delight and excitement, her hands gesturing wildly in the air as she described the stories and folk tales she collected from the people in the village she lived in. I had thought that Christine had seemed most alive when she was singing, but that was until I saw her like this, filled with passion and love at the memories of her childhood. The time, I realized that she held very close to her. Those memories were her sanctuary, I could see that, for when she had finished her stories, and the evening dissolved into silence once more, her eyes would dim, and her hands would fall neatly into her lap, lifeless and still once more.

It was all I could do to keep the silence away.


	4. Decisions

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. I do not own Phantom. I do not own Phantom of Manhattan, which my friend bought for me for my birthday and has nothing to do with this story. But I still don't own it. **

**A/N: I am a horrible person. It has been far to long. Really, I deserve to be punjabbed to death. No, I deserve to be locked into a mirror torture chamber, driven mad and THEN punjabbed to death. I'm sorry. Uh, the only thing I can say is… I hope you enjoy the chapter. After this there is only one more and then the Epilogue. **

_**All the Tomorrows**_

_**Chapter Four:**_

_**Decision**_

Time, as it is wont to do, moved both slowly and swiftly over the five and a half months Christine was with me. Those months were… wonderful. We had settled into somewhat of a routine, a series of common expectations we each had for the day. And yet, though our existence contained nothing extraordinary, I could not help but feel a sort of wonderment when I thought of it. The sheer _normality_ of it amazed and excited me. To have Christine, my _wife_, sitting across from me at breakfast each morning, or exclaiming over a piece of music, or humming under her breath as she sewed or cleaned or did a number of such _ordinary_ things was more than I could hope for, ask for. And yet still, I received even more.

One night, several days after our marriage I was about to retire to my room when Christine called my name. "Erik," she said, her voice abrupt and distressed. "I cannot bare the thought of you in that room. In that," and here she shuddered, "coffin." Whether it was for my welfare that she was so distressed or because the image of me in a coffin highlighted too well her marriage to a corpse I did not know. Nor did it matter, for she had opened her door and was waiting for me to step inside.

Most nights I could not touch her, or even sleep. I would lie on my side of the bed, stiff and curled within myself, staring at her sleeping form. I feared to touch her. It was as if her entire being was made up of the delicate substance of butterfly wings, and that if I had dared to, dared to want the powder of her skin on mine, she would wither away. So I usually stayed awake, frozen in both fear and wonder, and if she was relieved that I did not normally seek her out in desire, I could not tell.

My happiness, daroga, was complete. Christine and I lived as husband and wife in the house under the opera. We sometimes went out for a carriage ride at night, or walked through the parks that Christine was so fond of. Once, after putting on the mask I had told Christine of, the one that would make me look like a normal man, we even went out to dinner. But five months is too long a time for me to write down every experience, every conversation that I had with Christine. Instead I will merely tell you two things that happened, that I consider being significant.

It was just after supper, and we had retreated to our normal after-dinner activities. She sat down on the loveseat to recline with a book, and I worked at my desk on one of my architectural sketches. But soon, I abandoned my sketch and went to brood by the fireplace. I had been thinking about something, though I do not remember what now, when I was interrupted by Christine. She had asked my opinion on something she had read, and it started a conversation on the subject. For quite sometime we talked, trading back and forth opinions and ideas, until, seemingly frustrated that her conversational partner was lurking in the shadows, Christine said in exasperation, "Dear, come and sit by me. It would be so much easier to talk to you if I could actually see you."

_Dear._

Ah! To hear such a word from a woman's lips! And that those lips were Christine's: sweeter still!

Only one woman had ever called me that, a woman who feared me even as a boy, but had pitied me far more. "Erik dear," she had called me. And I had loathed that word, for I thought I would never hear it again, except in pity. And now, my loathing for it was stripped away, for it was Christine! Christine who called me "dear." It came easily to her lips, as it should, not forced out by fear and pity. It came for me as easily as it did for that boy, the Viscount, when they had played their game of engagement. Silently and ungracefully I went to her, and when I was sitting beside her, in decent light so she could see me, she started again our conversation. I cannot say I was a good, or even decent, conversationalist, for I was so shocked and surprised I could barely form an intelligent thought.

It was not the only time she had rendered me so. If you recall, daroga, when I am involved in a task it completely absorbs me. Nothing else exists. And it is the same when I am composing, even more so, in fact. I can spend hours, days even at my organ, oblivious to food, sleep, even Christine. And it was when I was in this trance-like state that Christine did something that completely shocked, and shamed, me.

I had been composing for a long time, how long, precisely, I do not know, but for a long time. At on point I became somewhat aware of a disturbance, a sound that clashed with the music I was creating, but other than that slight acknowledgement I paid no mind to it. It wasn't until I felt hands on my shoulders and an unfamiliar touch on my forehead that I stopped playing.

I had my hands around her throat before the last notes died.

Christine's eyes were wide and her features terror stricken as she clawed at my hands. It took me a moment to realize that she had not, in fact, removed my mask, and then it took me another moment to realize just what I felt on my forehead: a kiss. I threw myself way from her with a cry. "Forgive me!" I collapsed on the floor, shuddering with the horror of what I had done. I had harmed Christine; she was even now rubbing at the marks on her neck. Monster! "Forgive me! Oh! Forgive me!" Like an animal I was, so overcome with the horror of it. I rocked back in forth, clawing at my scalp and the floor, bashing my fists against the bench as I moaned and cried. "Erik, you vile, you _disgusting..._Oh, to do such a thing! Oh! Oh! Forgive me!"

I continued on in this manner until Christine approached me. "Erik." I shuddered and shied away. "Erik, please." She knelt and placed a hand on my shoulder and I trembled. "Erik," she said calmly, "you are not a monster. You are my husband." Instead of calming me, these words distressed me even more. Husband! What right have I to call myself that when I have treated her so? I moaned again and shook my head wildly, eyes clenched shut so as not to look at her. "Erik. Erik, stop. You are frightening me." The last was said very quietly, but it was what finally brought me to my senses. I did not want to frighten Christine so. I stilled my shaking, slowed my breathing, and opened my eyes.

Christine was just above me, peering into my mask in concern. I gently lifted her hand from my shoulder. "I am calm now, my dear. Go into the other room and leave me for a while." She complied and I stood as she did. Glancing at the organ I noticed something—a tray on the stand beside it, a tray that had tea and a bowl of stew. I felt even more ashamed—this must have been why she interrupted me in the first place. I tried to smile. "Thank you, my dear." She nodded, but did not smile. She was biting her lip and her hand was gingerly touching her neck. With a strange, far away expression on her face, she left the room. And the moment the door was shut I collapsed on the bench, shaking once again. "Oh Erik, you monster…"

Neither Christine or I ever mentioned that incident, but she took to wearing high collared dresses to hide the bruises on her neck, and every once in a while I would catch her massaging her neck, that now familiar far way expression back again. She never interrupted my playing again.

Perhaps, it was this incident that opened my eyes. It was obvious from my actions that I did not deserve her. Not even for the short period before my death. But I could have ignored this if Christine was happy, but she was not. She often roamed the house, wringing her hands and pacing as if she were anxious to get out. Many a night she sat in a corner and stared at the walls, her eyes unseeing. She stopped asking for stories, and her voice, while as beautiful as ever, lacked emotion. But it wasn't until she asked to hear my Don Juan Triumphant that I made my decision.

She had shifted nervously a little when she asked me, twisting the fabric of her skirt in her hands. I hesitated. I did not want her to hear that music ever again, and now that Christine was in my life, I had no with to play it. Who would want to listen to the echoing screams and cries of anguish when you could listen to Christine's voice? But she insisted. She did not cry out as she listened, her features did not crumple in pain, and she did not sob or fall down to beg me to stop, but was still. Sometimes, she would twitch or flinch, or maybe look away, but she never asked me stop. She listened until the score was finished, and then silently left the room.

I had ruined her. By binding her to me and forcing her to live with me in this…hole underground, I had shown her all the pain I had originally wanted to save her from. I made a decision: I would let Christine go.


	5. Empty Tomorrows

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. And you should be thankful for that. Because it seems that if I did, it probably never would have gotten finished and we would all be without Erik. **

**A/N: Tonight, or last night, I started reading my comments on this story—I was bored and I couldn't remember all that had been said, and after reading them I was very ashamed. All those wonderful comments you readers left and I haven't posted in so long! Really, you all were so wonderful, critiquing it and giving me the advice I needed as well as the confidence that I needed for some parts I weren't sure about. I am horrible. **

**So! I sat down and wrote this out all in one sitting. It is now after 2 am. I'm tired. But you guys sooo deserve it, and I very much enjoyed this chapter. But for excuses for the constant drawing-out-ness at the beginning and loads of description of Christine, I was listening to Le Salon de Musique the entire time, and it is to blame. Such a lovely, lovely song. Also, my rationalization is that Erik would really focus on memorizing everything about Christine here. And he probably couldn't help write a lot about her. Yup. That's what I say. **

**ABOUT THE EPILOGUE: I have decided not to have an epilogue on this story, and am instead just leaving it here. This was what I originally planned to do when I first thought up the story (I had the first and last chapter planned out before anything else) and I like it too much to change the ending with an epilogue. HOWEVER, I might at some point write up the epilogue I had in mind and post it as a one shot companion piece to this. So if you want to find out a bit about what Christine's life will be after leaving Erik, read that when its up. **

**So yes, THIS IS THE END OF THE STORY.**

_**All the Tomorrows**_

_**Chapter 5: Empty Tomorrows**_

It is not always true that actions follow decisions. For it was some time after I decided to break off my marriage with Christine that I actually did it. Parting from Christine would be the most painful thing I had ever experienced, and I wanted to forestall it as long as I could. A man does not rush to cut off his own hand, and I would sooner lose both hands than Christine. Without hands I would not be able to play, but music is merely a comfort and luxury, Christine was life. The decision however, could not be forgotten: Christine was fading. Before my very eyes she was withering away, crumpling into a pale shell of the magnificent girl she had been. She had dark bruises under her eyes, clashing with her very pale skin. Her hands shook whenever she used them—to hold up a book or to sew or even when she merely smoothed the folds of her dress. But even then, this shadow Christine was so painfully beautiful I just wanted to keep her near me.

She kept up the façade of life. She went about daily tasks with the vigor she always did; Christine always had something to keep her busy. Perhaps this was to fight off despair. An option to sing or discuss books and music was always welcome; she never turned away from my touch and embrace. She even continued to smile and laugh. But she was falling apart; her life was nothing but a pretense, an opera she would have to perform in for the rest of her days. I had to end it.

There was nothing special or particular about the day I chose for Christine to leave. Nothing triggered the decision but perhaps that I could no longer look upon this broken Christine and live with myself. The day started out normal; we arose from bed and ate breakfast at the usual time. There was some quiet conversation, nothing of consequence, just small chatter to keep to weary souls occupied as they awoke for the day. Afterwards I asked her join me at the piano. She readily complied and I took her through her warms ups, relishing in her voice as it reached the high point of each scale and letting the glorious notes tumble over me as she went back down. It was the last time that I would ever hear such a sound.

When we were finished she lightly touched the pile of music on the organ and smiled at me. "What would you have me sing?" she asked, her voice soft. For a moment I just looked at her: her hair was only lightly pulled back, leaving her blonde curls free to fall around her shoulders, just as she knew I liked it. She was not wearing a high collared dress, and the bruises on her neck had finally faded. Her lips were curled into a light smile. At that moment I could ignore the circles under her eyes, or the light trembling that seemed to plague her entire body. Here was youthful, beautiful Christine, the girl who had captivated me with her pure, untrained voice, the young woman who had driven me to desperation and madness in my quest for her love, and my wife, who had given me more than I could have ever deserved, who had given too much. I pulled out a song from the pile. It was one she had not sung since the beginning of her training, when I was still an angel and she an innocent. The song was light and happy with a simple melody and soaring notes; it was a song for spring and for lovers, and I wanted it to be the last song my Christine ever sang for me.

She gave me a quizzical look when she saw my selection but did not hesitate when I started to play. She sang the song with the ease of someone used to ones far more difficult, but with the sweet, clear voice of her youth. Even in this happy song she could not quite get rid of the sadness that weighed her down and it added a wistful quality to her voice that was almost too much to bear. And when she reached the crescendo of the song and her voice, that perfect voice I had never thought to hear until her, rang out in joyous rapture I nearly wept. But I refrained from doing so, there were to be no tears for this goodbye. Not yet.

The music died and Christine was looking at music with a fond smile on her lips. "I'd forgotten how much I liked that one." She glanced at me, inviting me to share in her delight, but I could not. Instead I took her left hand and traced the gold band on her finger lightly with mine. Then, ever so carefully, I slipped it off. "Erik, what—"

"Go." I interrupted her, my voice hoarse as I choked out the word. "Go, Christine. I release you from all the ties with which you are bound to me. Forget you ever called me 'husband.' Go and… and marry that boy." My voice dropped to a whisper. "Go and be happy." I continued to study the gold ring, refusing to look up at her face, to see the relief and longing I would surely find there. But with her quiet words I looked up in shock.

"I'm not going anywhere, Erik." And again more firmly: "No where. I am staying right here."

Dear, dear Christine! Even at the moment of her freedom she was still too good to me! Still so ready to do her duty as wife, to finish her job as companion. But I could not allow it. No. I could see the longing in her face, just as I knew I would, I could see how her eyes flickered to the door—beyond which the outside world and her real love were now so close for her to reach. I shook my head. "No. I release you! You are no longer bound to me, Christine! _Go!_"

"But you forget, Erik!" She exclaimed shrilly. "There are also ties that bind _you_ to _me!_"

"_Then I break them!"_ I stood up, flinging my arms out wide as I shouted, scattering sheet music and knocking over the piano bench as I did so. She backed up, eyes wide and hand automatically going up to touch her throat. My hysteria died when I saw this, but not my resolve. "I want you to leave, Christine." I muttered brokenly. "I can see that this place, that _I_, have ruined you. And in the little time I have left I would rather remember our brief time together than watch you shrivel away with me."

She took an impulsive step forward, one hand stretched toward me. "In the time you have left…"

I stopped her with a raised hand. "Yes, Christine. I am dying. My health has been failing for years and I don't have much more time."

She shook her head wildly, golden curls flying. "Then I should stay! I can't just leave you, Erik!"

"No, Christine. If you stay then you will surely die with me, and I cannot allow that." She said nothing and we stood there in silence, ten feet apart and each trembling with the power of our emotions. In some ways it was not unlike the night Christine had sworn to be my living wife. And here she was, my lovely, living wife and I wanted her to stay that way. Finally, she nodded before looking away and wiping at the tears in her eyes. My shoulders slumped. "Good." I whispered. "Now go an pack your things and I will take you up to the gate." I didn't watch her leave the room. My eyes were once again drawn to the little ring I held in my hand. For a short second I had a notion to give it back to her and make her promise that when I died she would come and put the ring on my finger and see that I was buried. But I could not ask that of her: by then she might have restarted her life, possibly with that Raoul de Chagny.

It did not take her long to gather all she wished to take. Even though she had started late morning we still set out across the lake not far into the afternoon. It was another thing to be ashamed of. Had this been anything but a farce of a marriage she would have had several large trunks at least to fill with knick-knacks and items she held too dear to part with. Instead two suitcases were all that she loaded into the boat. The ride across the dark waters of the lake was uncomfortably silent, but there was nothing we could have said. It wasn't until we reached the gate that any words passed between us. Before she left she wrapped her arms around me, kissing my misshapen lips and then pressing her face into the crook of my neck. My entire body shook as I held her. She was going to leave me forever, now, and I was the one making her go. Desperately I clung to her and I buried my face in her hair once more. "I love you," I gasped, what I had not been able to say the night she consented to be my wife. She shuddered and cried but did not say it back. I did not expect her to. And indeed I don't think I would have been able to let her go if she had.

"Goodbye, Erik." And she slipped from my arms and out the gate, my last view of her a silhouette against the light. I closed the gate behind her and pulled out the key—Christine's key, I thought with a horrible finality. The silence of the boat ride back was worse than the one before and the house was too empty when I entered it. I walked through it, by passing the music room and heading straight for the bedrooms. I lingered at the one Christine and I had shared, but I couldn't bring myself to enter it. Instead opened the door to my old room and lowered myself in the coffin I had not slept in for five months. It was cold as I laid there, Daroga, and I was empty. I pondered how my life would be with out her now, an empty string of days that couldn't possibly end soon enough, and as I did the memory of Christine's voice on that first night echoed in my mind.

_All the tomorrows shall be as today…_

What a terrible thought indeed.


End file.
